Okay.

I started the pre-series CSI fic that I promised, and I started it back in July. It has not gotten any further than this one chapter. And honestly, I don't know right now if it's going to. After a lot of thought and deliberation, I decided that something was better than nothing, and that to post this first "chapter" as a pre-series oneshot was better than it rotting and dying here in my computer. I might come back to it, and I might not, but at least now there's something of it out there. Super big apology for making everyone wait so long.

So, notes on the story. It's, for now, a oneshot; pre-series, on the day of Nick's interview with Gris and Brass for a position in the lab. I own nothing, yada yada yada.

Perfect for Us
Patience is a virtue.

Jim Brass had been repeating this cliché to himself over and over for the last…quick, discreet glance at his watch – not that anyone would have noticed, being so wrapped up in such a stimulating conversation…forty two minutes. Forty-two minutes. The guy sitting across from him wasn't worth forty-two seconds. As soon as he had opened his mouth, Jim had been able to tell that Douglas (NOT Doug) Broderick just wasn't going to cut it. Not in this town, and certainly not in his lab.

But, as it were, there were two of them in the room that sunny (not that they could tell from the cold, concrete dungeon that they were conducting interviews in) Tuesday afternoon. It was day two of a week-long run of pre-Graveyard shift interviews, and it seemed that it was going to take more than a couple of coughs and a kick under the table to get Gil Grissom to tell this kid all that he needed to hear – directions back to the interstate.

Especially when he was talking about bugs.

"In my opinion, cockroaches are given such a bad reputation. They really are quite remarkable insects."

This kid was either on the Olympic Ass-Kissing Team, or the All-State Geek Squad. Either way, he was making a wonderful impression on the would-be captain of both teams.

"That's the exact reason why I try to turn people onto all of the things that they're capable of. I'm racing three this year at the first annual entomological convention in Duluth." Gil Grissom, whose eyes were currently shining at the prospect of hiring a fellow bug lover, was the epitome of geek, and this newfound racing hobby didn't surprise Jim in the least. The entomologist's office was filled with giant books with titles that Jim couldn't pronounce, and glass cases inhabited by creatures that made his Jersey-born and raised skin crawl.

There was no questioning the man's brilliance, it was just that sometimes, he seemed a little…off. Eccentric, certainly. And at times, just downright weird. The pieces were all there, they were just a little scattered. Jim doubted that the candy he had been offered earlier that afternoon were truly chocolate covered peanuts…more than likely they were some kind of chocolate covered insect. Wouldn't be the first time. He idly wondered how a man who was such a damn bug lover could add a little sugar coating and call it a snack. He guessed there really wasn't anything that couldn't be helped by chocolate.

Jim took it upon himself to try to steer the conversation back to interview-relevant topics before he lost whatever macho manliness he had, just from his proximity to the conversation. "Doug, if we could just get back to your experience in the lab in Boston-"

Sharp blue eyes narrowed from wide-eyed admiration to annoyance as they redirected Jim's way. "Douglas," he corrected.

Jim gave a small, tired smile and flipped shut the folder in front of him, putting the final kibosh on the kid's hopes and dreams as far the Las Vegas crime lab was concerned. "Right."

Douglas turned back to Gil with an enthusiastic expression. "So, you race hissing cockroaches? From Madagascar?"

Gil beamed like a schoolgirl with a crush on the captain of the football team, and Jim felt his stomach flip a nauseated flop. Remember, Jimmy, he told himself, rubbing at his right temple, patience is a virtue.

"This will be their first time in competition, but I think they have some real potential. I raise them right here in the lab."

Patience equals virtue.

"And they take to the climate?"

You know who's not virtuous? Satan. You don't wanna be like Satan, do ya, Jimmy?

"I have a wonderful set of terrariums. Top of the line. I can take you by my office and introduce you to the boys when we're done here." The "boys" of course being his roaches.

"That'd be great, Mr. Grissom."

"Call me Gil."

And in that moment, James Michael Brass learned that he didn't have quite as much virtue as he may have previously thought. Something that might have already been brought to his attention had he ever listened to his ex-wife. Hence the 'ex'.

"Okay," he said loudly, if not rudely, standing suddenly and scraping the legs of his chair across the floor. He mustered up a smile from the fiery depths of uninhibited hatred that he found himself feeling for this kid, who was only describable as 'shiny'. "I think we've heard all we need hear. We've got a few more people to see today." One more person to see. It was barely a lie.

Gil was, predictably, unfazed by Jim's demeanor. Not missing a beat, he rose from his own chair as well, and extended a hand Douglas's way. "We'll be in touch."

The hand was pumped vigorously by the over-eager, suit-wearing, baby-faced, shiny Douglas Broderick. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Grissom." He didn't even glance Jim's way, knowing already that that was a lost cause.

After Douglas was gone, Jim rolled his eyes and sank back into his seat. He snuck a glance at the folder and paperwork in front of him, and was now not surprised to see a roman numeral at the end of Dougie's name. Douglas Broderick III. With a name like that, it was a safe bet that at twenty-seven, the kid was still living off of Daddy's money and Mommy's country club membership. No, they didn't need people like that around here. They were squeamish.

"I liked him," Gil said

"Can't imagine why," Jim said sarcastically, tossing Pretty Boy's file into the growing pile of rejections at the far corner of the table.

"He had an interest in entomology," Gil protested.

"That just makes him a nerd," Jim replied dryly. He ignored the glare that was thrown his way and grabbed the last file remaining in the pile in front of him.

Gil sank back into his chair next to him. "What do we have left?"

"Nicholas Stokes, from the Dallas lab," Jim read from the file. He shook his head. "Nicholas. If this kid doesn't let me call him 'Nick', Gil, he's out the door before he steps in."

"You need a map?"

Nick Stokes whirled at the deep voice, found himself facing a tall black man wearing an amused expression, and wondered just how long he had been standing in the lobby.

As it turned out, Nick had been standing in the front lobby of the Las Vegas Crime Lab for…huh…a full twelve minutes, in a humiliating touristy awe of the pure size of the building, watching dozens of people making their way down numerous hallways and through countless doors. It was one of the best crime labs in the country, and it was easy to tell that things were taken seriously in Vegas just by standing in the lobby. He bet that in a building this big, they even had an underground lab. Like the Bat Cave.

And on THAT note…Nick smiled a small, sheepish smile at the man who had walked up to him, who was eyeing him with such a look that made Nick wonder again how long he had been just standing there like a mindless buffoon since the question was asked. "No, no. Just, ah…actually, yeah. Yes. Well, not a map, just some directions would be…nice…" Dear Lord above, stop talking NOW.

Nick laughed lightly, swallowed, and tried to regain some of his dignity. Honestly, he might be working with these people – did he need to make himself look like a complete moron the moment he walked through the door? "I'm looking for Jim Brass. I have an interview." He couldn't help sounding a little proud as he said it. Then he immediately gave himself a mental smack in his own dimwitted forehead – who was he trying to impress? This man already worked here.

The taller man was unfazed by his pompous statement, and leaned his head back with a knowing smile. "Ah, you're one of those," he said, giving Nick a friendly punch on the arm.

Nick frowned and took a small step back, out of the range of anymore incoming punches; friendly or not, he liked his personal space. "One of what?" He couldn't help the defensive edge that had crept into his voice.

"Wide-eyed hopefuls, just itching for a chance to work in the big leagues."

Nick's eyes narrowed and his hands took up the defensive posture on his hips that matched his tone. "I've worked in Dallas for three years, and our lab might not be this…big, but believe me, we're plenty capable-"

He was cut off by a good-natured laugh and a dismissive wave. "Relax, man, I'm just messin' with you." The man then extended his hand as the amused look was replaced with one of appraisal. "Warrick Brown."

"Nick Stokes."

"Texas, huh?"

"Born and raised," Nick drawled, starting to relax for the first time since he stepped off of the plane that morning.

"Same here. Only…here." Warrick ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, you're actually interviewing for a spot on my shift. You know it's Graveyard, right? Not exactly primo hours."

Nick shrugged. "It's an opening."

Warrick bobbed his head with a crooked grin. "Good answer." He gestured to the dark suit he was wearing, and the tie sticking out of his left pant pocket. "Well, I've got court this afternoon, and I need to be going this way," he nodded to the space over Nick's shoulder. "If you're looking for Jim, he'd be thataway," he continued, now jerking a thumb behind him.

Nick nodded, glancing down the seemingly endless hallway. Big help. "Thanks."

"You bet." Warrick ducked his head and moved past Nick, taking long, confident strides. He was certainly a man that was sure of himself. He stopped after only a few strides and turned. "Hey, I'm off tonight, after court. If you're gonna be town tonight, you wanna grab a beer or something? I should get to know the people I'll be working with."

Nick laughed lightly. "I wouldn't get too far ahead of yourself. I haven't even had the interview yet."

"Yeah, you're right. You'll probably tank it."

Both men laughed, and Warrick continued down the hall. Nick replaced his hands on his hips and sighed, staring down the never-ending corridor.

"Hey."

Nick turned around at the call. "Yeah?"

Warrick walked backwards down the hall, grinning ear to ear. "Good luck in there. You're gonna need it."

"Wha-?" Nick started to ask, but Warrick had already turned and was on his way out of the building.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, starting down the hall in the opposite direction. "Big help."

If an innocent passerby was to ask Nick if he was feeling nervous that afternoon, standing in an overly lit corridor, waiting outside of an intimidatingly large, closed door with nowhere to sit and nothing to do but worry that he wasn't going to cut it…to say 'no' would have been a lie. Not a great big one; he doubted it was a lie that would land him a drop kick straight to Hell, but a lie nonetheless. Nick wasn't one who tended to be nervous very often, but this situation really was an exception.

However, Nick was one who often felt the unnecessary need to justify his feelings to himself. If he was nervous, then there was certainly a reasonable reason, because hell, he hadn't exactly been nervous when pledging his fraternity. It had taken a man that was truly confident, or at least truly drunk, to show up at Stacey Wengler's all-campus party in a dress and heels.

Here, he was just as open and exposed in front of a monstrously large building full of people, all staring at him and judging him, but it was a lot different. Because while being in a fraternity meant a certain amount of prestige around campus, the prestige that was locked in with a position within this lab extended nationwide, and that was very appealing to Nick. Not only was this a chance to get out of Dallas, and away from…parental influences, but it was a chance to make a name for himself. It was a big step, and he found his stomach taking a few unbidden steps of its own.

It wasn't that he was uncertain of his talents and abilities; he knew that he did his job well, and that he'd do the same here. Warrick hadn't been kidding – this was the big leagues. His colleagues back in Dallas would kill to be in the position he was in right now, shuffling their feet in the fluorescently lit (not that they didn't have florescent lighting in Texas) hallway of the Las Vegas Crime Lab – the number two lab in the country. And that was the whole country.

It was a big deal.

And what could possibly add to that already big deal? The fact that he would be interviewing with Gil Grissom. The same Gil Grissom whose articles Nick had been reading in scientific journals only weeks before. That man would have a say in whether or not Nick got this job.

Yeah, he was pretty nervous.

"Nicholas Stokes?"

"Yeah," Nick said, forcing the thoughts out of his mind and straightening. "Yes," he amended, hearing his mother's voice in his head, telling him not to slouch, and not to say 'yeah'. He quickly pushed her away, as well.

"James Brass." A squat, gruff-looking man, who didn't look particularly old but was already parting ways with a good deal of his hair on top, smiled, somewhat mechanically, took a step forward and offered his hand to Nick. "Jim's fine."

He stepped forward as well and corrected the man. Only his grandmother called him Nicholas, and his grandmother, this man was not. "Nick," he said, giving the man's hand a firm, single shake up and down.

For some reason, this seemed to please the shorter man, and as they moved into the room, he mumbled something out of the corner of his mouth that sounded strangely like "Thank God."

Jim wasn't the kind of man that usually took notice of what other men were wearing, but in this case, he was willing to make an exception without calling himself a sissy, or a girl. The kid was wearing a clean, crisp dark blue button-down shirt (sleeves pushed to the elbows, still neat yet casual) tucked into dark dress pants. And Jim thought that that was fantastic.

He wasn't wearing a suit. For whatever reason, Nick (NOT Nicholas, thank God for small favors) got a point for that fact alone. Jim had seen enough young guys in expensive suits in those two days to last him a lifetime. Of course, he was wearing a suit, he always wore a suit to work – something about looking professional, blah, blah, blah…but there was something so refreshing about seeing someone who wasn't going to go over the top to impress them.

He communicated this thought to Gil (dressed in his ever-present black shirt and pants, very original) with a subtle eyebrow raise, which Gil predictably didn't get, and instead brought attention to the movement by quirking an eyebrow and loudly asking "What?"

Jim chuckled sheepishly and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Nick Stokes, Gil Grissom," he said by way of introduction.

"Just Gil. Or Grissom. Not both." Gil rose to shake Nick's hand (that was something else Jim was getting sick off – shaking hands) and all that came out of the kid's mouth was a stuttered and caught off guard "yeah."

And there it was. Yet another look of wide-eyed admiration directed at his colleague. Didn't know we were interviewing the entire Gil Grissom Fan Club, Jim thought with only the slightest touch of bitterness. He didn't have a fan club. But then again, he wasn't Gil Grissom. Gil was both a well-known criminalist and entomologist, and it made sense that people serious about this job and working in this lab knew who he was. He just didn't want to have to deal with another kiss-ass.

However, before Jim could let out the same disappointed sigh that he had breathed out before the start of so many interviews, Nick's eyed returned to their normal less-than-dinner-plates size and he released Gil's hand and nodded with a much more professional "It's really nice to meet you, Mr. Grissom."

"No 'mister', either," Gil responded was a face, sitting backing his chair.

Nick nodded, and Jim awarded Nick another mental tally mark in his head as they sat down at the table.

Since it had been decided, somewhat at the last minute, that Gil should be included in the interviewing and hiring process, they had nixed the idea of trying to cram three people into his just a touch too small office, and they had instead set up shop in one of the lab's workrooms. Jim didn't find the lighting to be particularly intimidating or threatening, but he saw Nick squirm just the slightest as he tried to find a comfortable position in the plastic chair.

Jim gestured to the pitcher and glasses in the center of the room. "Water?" He felt like he was preparing to question a suspect.

Nick shook his head. "No, thank you," he said politely, and Jim picked up on the accent on the word 'you'. Southern. The women in the lab would just swoon over this kid.

"Alright," Jim said, settling into his own stiff plastic chair, "let's get started." He looked down at the tabletop in front of him and scanned Nick's file. And the couple of points that he had already awarded the kid started to fade. Oh, yeah. He remembered this one now. His father was a judge, and his mother was a district attorney. Parents in the system, he thought with an inward sigh.

If there was one that really grated on Jim's nerves, it was feeling pressured to hire fresh outta college kids with parents in the system. Whether they were on the force in Vegas, or a state supreme court justice in Texas, there was some kind of underlying subtext that these kids got hired, whether he felt they deserved the job or not.

"Let's start out easy," Gil said suddenly, and brought Jim out of his thoughts and back to the interview at hand, which he was already failing to conduct. "What brings you here to Vegas, Nick? Why do you want to work in this lab?"

Easy? Yeah, only if he lied. There was no way in hell he was going to make the impression that he wanted to by telling these men that he wanted away from his parents. What was he, twelve?

So Nick did the easy thing. He told them reason number two, the one that he had practiced. "This lab's reputation is known all around the country, and when I saw the job opening, I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to work in such an established and respected crime lab."

It was the answer that he had rehearsed from the moment he received the call from Vegas that he had an interview, and it came off even better than he could have hoped for. The older men both nodded a few times, apparently happy with his answer. That, or just happy for having their egos stroked from the praise.

"So, tell us about yourself."

The question came from Jim, but Nick couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Gil Grissom. The man just LOOKED like a scientist. And he was looking at Nick like he was a specimen in a glass jar. It was unsettling, but at the same time, made Nick feel like he was important.

Nevertheless, he again had that intense desire to not make himself look like a jackass in front of these people, so he turned his attention to Jim, and ignored the cool blue eyes that were watching his every move. "Well," he started, "I've worked in the lab in Dallas for three years-"

He was cut off by a raise of Jim's hand, and his eyes widened in surprise. "I can read all of those things in this file," Jim said warmly, resting a hand on the manila folder in front of him. "Don't tell us about your work. Tell us about you."

Nick swallowed, and felt a warm heat rise in his cheeks as he vocalized the first thing that came to mind. "I like birds."

The two men exchanged a look, and Jim gave Gil a look and a sigh that seemed to say 'if you must', and Gil turned back to look at him, an odd gleam in his eyes.

"How do you feel about bugs?"

"Well," Gil said, moving to help Jim collect the myriad assortment of papers that they had accumulated that afternoon, "I think that went well."

Jim cracked a small smile. "He wasn't too crazy about bugs."

Gil gave a 'what can you do?' shrug, though Jim swore there was a hint of disappointment in the gesture. "They can't all be."

"Did you hear what I heard, though?" Jim asked, loosening his tie, then with an inner to hell with it, he removed it completely, and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his striped dress shirt, giving himself some breathing room.

"Two years of college ball?"

"That's the one."

Gil breathed in a deep sigh, and a bright smile crossed his features. "God, can't you just see the look on Conrad's face when we show up in the spring with someone can play?"

"First base, at that. We needed that, with Sheridan moving to Swing and all."

"He's perfect for us, Jim," Gil said, moving across the small room to the door, a stack of files tucked under his arm. "Just perfect."

And despite his initial doubts, Jim had to agree with his friend.

The End. Possibly. For now...at least.